


Dratchet (tm)

by SparkBeat



Series: Commissions [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Angst, Description of PTSD like panic attack, Fingering, First Date, First Meeting, Fluff, Miko is totally a shipper, Misunderstandings, Oral, Shy Ratchet is shy, Sticky Interfacing, Violence, all the feels, seriously Ratchet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:17:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6109201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkBeat/pseuds/SparkBeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Miko's OTP is sunk, she cheers for a new team. Or when Ratchet meets Drift. Again. For the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rayearthmagic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rayearthmagic/gifts).



> This was a commission for the wonderful [Ray](http://rayearthmagic.tumblr.com/). Thank you so much! <3

The alarm was a surprise when it started going off a few hours after the children had been brought to the base from their educational institute. Then again, Ratchet supposed, alarms wouldn’t be needed if they weren’t a surprise. Miko was holding her hands over her ears, standing on top of the console and glaring at the screen. How she got there was anyone’s guess. He gathered her up carefully in one hand and passed her over to Bulkhead with a sigh, keying in override codes with the other to silence the audio.

 

“It appears we have an incoming Cybertronian lifeform, Optimus.” He studied the signature on the screen, and traced the incoming trajectory as Optimus stepped up behind him, leaning in to peer over his shoulder.

 

“An unregistered signal?”

 

“Not uncommon, even a bot in possession of the glitchiest processor on Cybertron would mask their signal if they didn’t want to be shot down dropping through known con territory, at least give themselves a fighting chance to come out of an escape pod guns blazing.” Ratchet sighed, trying one last string of code to decipher the mech’s ident tag to no avail.

 

“Could also be a ‘con looking to get the drop on _us_ , coming out guns blazing.” Bulkhead said with a growl, setting Miko down on the landing with the others and crowding up on one side of Ratchet, Arcee on the other.

 

“I am _well aware of that Bulkhead_ . However, what would you suggest? To leave the mech out there to fend for themselves on the _off chance_ they’re a Decepticon?” Ratchet snapped, pushing out of the overwhelming press of frames around him and stalking to the medbay.

 

While Prime prepped the team and the bridge, Ratchet moved on autopilot, grabbing the few supplies he needed to add to his crash kit and stuffing the whole lot into his subspace. By the time he stomped back out, the bridge had been opened, and he pushed through the loitering mass of bots.

 

“Well? We won’t find out who it is, just standing around, will we?”

 

~~~~~

 

Ratchet stepped out just as a ball of fire streaked by overhead, and dropped down into vehicle mode before the others were all through the ground bridge, following the streak of light left behind. Despite the inherent danger, his medic coding refused to let him drag his feet when another living mechanism might be hurt.

 

The pod had already broken atmosphere by the time they’d mobilized, and so when it had passed overhead, it had been extremely low. Lucky for them, although it still meant nearly twenty minutes of driving to reach ground zero, where a long furrow had been dug into the desert floor, ending in a massive, smoking crater.

 

He had one foot into the sloping side of the crater before Bulkhead wrapped one massive hand over his shoulder and nearly yanked him off his feet in an attempt to pull him back.

 

“Whoa, doc, don’t go rushing off like that! We don’t know who’s in there!” Ratchet twisted out of Bulkhead’s bruising grip, turning to glare at him.

 

“No, Bulkhead, we don’t. But chances are good whoever’s in there suffered a trauma induced processor reboot during the crash, since they haven’t come out yet. And we all know full well Megatron’s got standing orders out for a capture, not a kill, under threat of deactivation on the con responsible, for all medics. _Especially_ me.” He didn’t wait for the ex-wrecker to come up with a response, and nodded to Optimus.

 

Optimus heaved a sigh through his vents they could all hear over the sounds of crackling, burning debris, but nodded back, striding up to the lip of the crater and clapping Ratchet on the back.

 

“We’ll cover you, old friend.” Optimus, at least, knew Ratchet couldn’t ignore his coding any more than he could sprout wings and call himself a seeker.

 

Sliding down the side of the crater, he came up on the side of the pod, pressing a foot to the superheated surface to balance himself. He’d learned long ago to lead with a foot. Otherwise he’d throw out a sensor packed hand to steady himself and then he’d be of no use to anyone. Never ask him how he learned that.

 

He knocked on the side of the pod, hoping for a response. When none was forthcoming, he reached into subspace for his cutting torch, doing a rapidfire calculation of how long it would take for the surface of the pod to cool enough for a cutting torch to even _work_. Before he’d come to a conclusion, there was a rapid fire, staccato knock from inside, and then the hatch blew free, a gout of steam bursting from the opening as the relatively chilled air inside made contact with the heatwave of the exterior.

 

Ratchet stepped back as best he could on the steep slope, calling up internal scanner protocols as a dark hand slapped against the edge of the gap in the ship, and a white helm peeked out.

 

“Chief Medical Officer Ratchet. Are you injured?” He stepped closer to the pod, sweeping a scan over the bot still mostly eclipsed by the dark shadows of the pod and the blaze of the burning debris. The initial scans were coming back relatively clean when the mech finally pulled himself from the pod and rose to his full height, perhaps a little taller than Ratchet, but not by much.

 

The mech didn’t say anything, slowly stretching, assessing his frame. Ratchet found himself content for once to wait for an answer, thoroughly engrossed in the sight of that long, lean frame as the mech stretched his arms up over his helm, then canted one hip to the side, reaching down to fiddle with what appeared to be a sheath attachment point.

 

Finally, after a tense wait where Ratchet struggled to focus on something, anything, other than the way the stripes of alternating color on his waist flexed as he moved, the curve of his hip jutted out to the side, the mech turned to face him, blue optics glowing brightly.

 

“Chief Medical Officer Ratchet. A pleasure to meet you. I was hoping you would find me first. Designation’s Drift.” Stepping away from the shadow of the pod, rising up the side of the crater a little, the mech was thrown into stark relief, the light from the dying flames, and the setting sun reflecting in orange off large patches of white plating. Drift smiled at him, offering a hand.

 

“Drift, welcome to Earth.” Ratchet managed, finding his intake had suddenly gone dry. Drift was...a legend. And much more attractive than even his holo-captures made him out to be. His hand tingled where it was wrapped in Drift’s warm palm, even with his sensors dialed down to combat the heat. It wasn’t till they’d crested to lip of the crater that he’d found his voice again, and immediately started barking orders.

 

“We’re bringing him in live, and whole. Ready the ground bridge, I want him in med-bay for a full scan STAT.” Optimus nodded, and on cue, the swirl of the ground bridge opened a short distance away, triggered by Raf on Optimus’ command.

 

“Drift, it is _good_ to see you again.”

 

“Optimus Prime, sir, I can say the same. I’m so sorry for the surprise entry...I find it’s safe for all involved to keep my ident cloaked…”

 

“Not safer for _you_.” Ratchet grumbled, as they stepped through into the base.

 

“Perhaps not...but I would hate to bring the DJD after me directly to Team Prime themselves.” Drift laughed, bowing slightly to the Prime once they were all through and into the safety of the base.

 

In the bright fluorescent lighting of the base, every ding and dent and nick and scuff and scratch on Drift’s plating stood out in stark shadow on the white sections of plating. Ratchet was already ushering him to the section of the base he’d claimed as his medbay, and didn’t realize till they were to the exam berth that he’d put a hand on Drift’s hip, giving him no room to argue. He pulled his hand away as if it’d been scalded, and waved him up onto the table while he steadfastly refused to make optic contact.

 

“Woah! Who’s _that_?” He winced, hearing Miko come racing into the room. Drift’s finials perked up, and he leaned forward almost off the table to peer at the tiny human standing in the doorway looking up at him.

 

“Ah, sorry Ratch...Miko, c’mon, let the doc do his job.” Bulkhead sighed, scooping the girl up into his hand. She peeked out from between thick fingers to stare at Drift, and Ratchet sighed.

 

“Drift, this is Miko. One of our human...allies. Miko, this is Drift.”

 

“Drift, huh? You a racer? I bet you turn into a super sleek sports car, yea?” Drift laughed, leaning back on the table and submitting to Ratchet’s scans without a fuss.

 

“I _am_ a speedster frame, yes. It’s very nice to meet you, Miko.”

 

“Speedster? What’s that, like a racer? So you just a race car then?”

 

“Just a race car? Miko, this is _Drift_! The hero of the battle for the Crystal City Ruins. He was a ‘Con berzerker, and he just up and left em, switched sides, and fought on the front lines for the Autobots!” Bulkhead gushed, gesturing with his free hand to Drift, who ducked his helm, letting out a little awkward laugh and waving off the praise.

 

“Wait, a ‘con? Like, _Decepticon, ‘con?_ ” Miko demanded, scrambling up Bulkhead’s arm to his shoulder and standing by the mech’s helm, fists on hips, glaring at Drift. “I heard ‘cons don’t like traitors much. How’d you get out? Shouldn’t you be an oil stain under bucket head’s foot?”

 

“ _Miko_ . That’s _enough_.” Ratchet snapped, crowding Bulkhead and by proxy his tiny charge, out of the med bay and brandishing a wrench. The last thing he wanted was for the girl to stress Drift out with thoughts of the feared DJD tracking him across the universe with the sole intent to rip him to shreds.

 

Drift was silent while Bulkhead backed away, cupping Miko in both hands to shield her from them, and they from her.

 

“I’m...I’m sorry about that. She-”

 

“She means well.” Drift interrupted, looking up from under his crest with a smile, a little weaker than before. “She’s very protective of you all, that’s good! And I suppose she… she ah, wouldn’t know about _them_ , so she couldn’t know she was walking into a rocky subject.”

 

Ratchet shook his helm, gently plugging a diagnostics scanner into the proffered port array on the other mech’s arm. “No. They’re children by their race’s standards...and they already see too much of the horrors we’ve inflicted on each other in the name of this war. We all felt it best to keep those mechs a secret, so long as they’re not here.”

 

“Children?” Drift asked, resting his free hand over Ratchet’s on his diagnostics array.

 

“Yea...they’re none of them to their majority yet. And all of them have sacrificed for us without being asked. They’re...they’re friends.” Ratchet blushed, the warmth of Drift’s hand over his making little flutters start up in his tank, and he both anticipated and dreaded the moment the scanner would beep completion and he could step back, regain his professional composure. “Annoying pit spawn, _especially_ Miko, quite often...but they’re friends.”

 

Drift grinned, mood lightening considerably as Ratchet coiled the cable back up and set the scanner aside.

 

“Well, I’m sure they all count themselves quite lucky to be your friend, sir.”

 

“Bah! You gotta have severe processor damage to want to be friends with this old rust bucket.” Ratchet grumbled, pulling up Drift’s results on the console and scanning through them for any inconsistencies or damage reports.

 

“I’d like to be your friend.” Drift said softly, leaning forward off the table to touch Ratchet’s shoulder.

 

“Well then, I’ll skip right on ahead to the processor reports and forward your information on to Rung and his team for evaluation, shall I?” There was a beat of silence, where Ratchet worried he’d offended the front liner, and then Drift threw his head back and _laughed_. The flutters returned in the pit of his tank, and he kept his optics firmly on the console to hide the flush that had surely disabled his heat sinks by now.

 

~~~~~

 

Bulkhead leaned against the ledge, optics wide, while Drift _touched_ the grumpy mech, and then _laughed_ . And scarier still, Ratchet was _blushing_. And...did he just drop his scanner?

 

“Oh man, he’s got it bad.” He chuckled, elbowing Wheeljack. The other Wrecker jerked away with a frown, staring at their one time fellow Wrecker as the front liner bent over and picked the scanner up, dusting it off and handing it back to Ratchet with a smile.

 

“C’mon, ‘Jack...don’t look so upset.” He sighed, shifting his stance to face the other mech. Wheeljack snorted, lifting one shoulder in a dismissive shrug.

 

“Whatever. If speedy over there wants to hit on sunshine, it’s his funeral. Mech never loosens up, this won’t last.”

 

Bulkhead frowned. He wanted ‘Jack to be wrong, wanted their medic to be _happy_. And Drift? Drift had saved his aft that day in the shattered wreckage of the once beautiful city. He’d shown up on the front lines, swords a blur, spilling the energon of his once companions to save Bulkhead and the others that had been pinned down. And the short time he’d been a Wrecker, he’d been a good friend.

 

He’d hoped the little spark he’d seen between Drift and their sniper Percy would grow into something more...but Wreckers with Wreckers was a powder keg waiting to ignite.

 

He cuffed ‘Jack upside the helm and laughed, thumbing over his shoulder towards the exit.

 

“C’mon, let’s go run off some of that steam you’re building up ‘fore you pop. Coming, Miko?” Miko had a funny look on her face, but flung herself over the railing just the same, giving the two a thumbs up and a grin.

 

“Let’s do this!” Bulkhead laughed, shooing Wheeljack out ahead of him and risking a glance over his shoulder.

 

Drift had stepped up behind Ratchet, reading whatever was on the console over the medic’s shoulder, hands clasped together behind his back. Ratchet was ramrod straight, and his face was a bright red to match his paint

 

Maybe this would work out better than the last relationship Bulkhead had been witness to.

 

He hoped so, for both their sakes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ship is sunk, and a date is made.

When Optimus stepped into the med bay to speak with Drift about his sleeping arrangements on base, Ratchet was surprised to hear the taller mech speak as if space was at such a premium that they couldn’t afford to convert a single storage room in the facility into another habsuite. 

 

He wasn’t so surprised, however, when the meddlesome Prime offered up  _ his  _ room as the best option for cohabitation. That his old friend was attempting to play matchmaker was both touching and  _ mortifying _ , and he shook his head when Optimus looked over at him with an arched brow. 

 

Drift followed Optimus’ gaze, shifting to meet Ratchet’s optics, and beamed at him.

 

“I...I’d be more than grateful for any space you can make for me, sir...that is, if you don’t mind, of course, Ratchet?” Ratchet made a note to run an audial check later, he could swear the mech sounded  _ hopeful _ . Then again, maybe he was just hoping Ratchet wouldn’t be an aft and tell him frag no, he could sleep on the floor by the ground bridge.

 

He also needed to check his slagging heat sinks because he could  _ feel _ his face heating up.  _ Again. _ Spinning the spanner he held to his chest between shaking, twitchy fingers, desperate for an outlet for his nervous energy, he just shrugged and rebooted his vocalizer. Twice.

 

“Hrm... _ ah _ . Yea. I suppose if we’ve  _ not got the space _ .” He raised an eyebrow, and Optimus chuckled, shifting his weight between feet and  _ winking at him _ .

 

“Head down that hall back there. My... _ our _ hab suite is third door on the right.” Ratchet sighed, waving off in the direction of the hall leading to their living quarters. He pinged the door code to the the other mech absentmindedly, and then froze when Drift accepted it with a flirtatious winking emoji symbol back.

 

The spanner in his hands clattered to the floor, and he coughed loudly, vents rattling and vocalizer fuzzing with static, as if it would mask the fact that Drift had startled and shocked him into losing his grip on the tool sitting on the floor between his feet.

 

Drift walked away with a soft smile, thanking Optimus on his way by. 

 

The way he walked, the way his hips moved, the sword sheaths swaying against his thighs with every step like skirting panels, it was all clearly designed with the one goal of making his oral intake go dry and his knees go weak.

 

“-chet? Ratchet?” He shook his helm, turning to face Optimus with a glare. It didn’t faze the other mech, who merely clapped him on the shoulder and smiled.

 

“I think our new friend could use a little hospitality to make him feel welcome, don’t you, old friend?” 

 

His intakes stalled, vents wheezing, fans straining, as ideas of what kind of ‘hospitality’ he could provide started to run through his mind. Optimus, knowing exactly where his processor had gone no doubt, chuckled, and straightened up as Drift came walking back down the hall with a spring in his step. 

 

“I  _ am _ sorry about the lack of accomodations,” Optimus sighed, and Ratchet snorted. Yea,  _ sorry _ , he believed that about as much as he believed he’d give up medicine and sing on stage after they won the war and rebuilt Cybertron.  _ Sorry _ , he says. “I hope that-”   
  


“No! It’s alright, sir, it’s really...cozy, in there.” 

 

Ratchet slammed his tool down on the counter, glaring at the console and refusing to make optic contact with anyone. So much for Optimus’ grand plan on matching them up. The mech was already not looking forward to sharing close quarters with him, naturally.

 

“None of us have the luxury of massive habsuites, but don’t worry. I can find plenty to do out here when you need to recharge. There’s always something to do.” He sounded slagged off, and he knew it, but it was either that, or let Optimus hear how hurt he was, and he’d be having energon with Primus before he did that.

 

“ _ Ah,  _ nonono!” Drift grabbed him by the shoulder, squeezing his pauldron and forcing him to half turn to face the other mech. “That’s...that’s  _ not _ what I meant, at  _ all. _ Sharing a room with you will be...nice.” 

 

Ratchet looked past Drift’s earnest face, those bright optics and that wide smile with just a hint of fang and he wasn’t about to admit what that did to him, not one bit. Optimus was grinning openly at him from over Drift’s shoulder, giving him a thumbs up. 

 

<Optimus, don’t you have somewhere else to be?> Ratchet snarled over their private command channel. Not like anyone else had access to it anymore, not on earth anyway.

 

<Not at all, Ratchet.> Optimus’ glee at the whole situation was audible over the comm line, and Ratchet pressed his lips into a thin line, trying to keep from glaring.

 

<How  _ dare _ you, Optimus. You  _ know _ we have plenty of storage rooms we could convert. And hospitality? If you wanted him to feel welcome and relaxed, you shouldn’t have stuck him with  _ me _ . He’s going to get woken up at all hours every time a medbay alarm goes off, and you  _ know _ it.> Drift’s hand tightened on his shoulder, and the mech made a worried little noise in the back of his vocalizer. Even silent anger was noticeable when it was coming from Ratchet, it seemed. He just drudged up a weak little smile of his own, stepping back and breaking contact. Drift’s field, which had been pressing up familiarly against his plating up to that point, withdrew quickly, retreating back to hold tightly against the frontliner’s protoform under his own plating, and Ratchet felt the loss keenly. 

 

<You know, I’m worried I wasn’t being clear. When I said Drift could use a little ‘hospitality’> and slag all if he couldn’t  _ hear _ the air quotes around the word, and it took a supreme effort of will to keep from rolling his optics then and there, <What I  _ meant _ was that you should probably get to know him a little better. And what I mean by  _ that _ , is that you should get to know his interfacing array a little better.>

 

This time his vents stalled altogether, and he locked down every joint to keep from pitching forward and falling flat on his face. Or just pitching a spanner at Optimus’ face.

 

< _ OPTIMUS ORION PAX PRIME _ !> Optimus retreated with a wink, and a promise to check up on them both later to see how Drift was getting on.

 

“Ah...um. Well, we’ll uh, we’ll get a berth sorted out for you before end of shift. Otherwise you’d be stuck bunking with me.” Ratchet laughed, and then froze, replaying what he’d just said to verify that  _ yes _ , he really  _ did _ just suggest that the gorgeous speedster standing in front of him with a patient smile on his face share his berth, even in a platonic fashion.

 

“Well, I could think of  _ far _ worse places to spend the night cycle than your berth, Ratch.” Ratchet tilted his helm a bit, at the familiar nickname, and Drift’s optics were the ones to widen this time, “Ah, um, Ratch _ et _ ...sir?” He couldn’t help it. He started with a little snort, a chuckle that shook his shoulders, and then he couldn’t stop laughing, shaking his helm and covering his face with both hands. 

 

Drift’s field brushed up against him tentatively, and he fumbled to push reassurance that he wasn’t absolutely crazy through into his own before pushing back against the other mech’s EMF.

 

~~~~~

 

Miko looked between the two mechs so clearly  _ flirting _ in the medbay, and Bulkhead and Optimus, who were leaning against the column to either side of where she stood by the railing. Bulk and the boss bot were both  _ smiling _ . Not even smiling,  _ grinning,  _ even.

 

She stayed silent as they watched the embarrassing display of she wasn’t sure what that was going on in the partially walled off medbay, thinking.

 

~~~~~

 

Drift stepped out of the medbay, spark spinning in its chamber, feeling lighter than it had in a long, long time. The medic didn’t seem to mind too terribly that they had been stuck together as bunkmates, and although that wasn’t much, he was willing to take it for the start it was.

 

He’d seen the CMO before, from time to time, when Prime made the rounds of the frontlines, delivering his spark-stirring speeches that bolstered flagging confidences. The medic was never far from his Prime, always with an acerbic remark for smartafts and a foul attitude that had belied his care and skill in his Primus granted field. He’d even worked on Drift once, after a particularly terrible battle had left many of their mechs dead or wounded, himself included. 

 

He’d been sure when he’d fallen on the field outside Praxus that he’d be left for dead. An ex-Con? Who would bother with someone like him? He’d served the big purpose of his function, back in New Crystal City, after that he’d just become a hanger on, someone to be ‘dealt with’. Always treated like a live mine, as if the wrong word could set him off into a blind rampage. 

 

He’d actually felt relieved, to be honest. He was dying on the battlefield, which seemed fitting, and he’d done  _ good _ in his life before he’d fallen, he’d made amends for at least a fraction of what he’d done as Deadlock, and as an added bonus, the Decepticon Justice Division had never caught up with him.

 

He’d just offlined his optics, finding just enough energy left in his energon starved frame to smile at the warmth that had been suffusing his spark, when a gruff voice had spoken up, seeming to be yelling at top volume right next to his audial for how it pierced his fuzzy processor.

 

“Got another over here. Critical condition.” There was no excitement in his tone, no sense of urgency to be heard, but all the same, Drift had felt like anyone nearby would be jumping at his instructions as though a fire had been lit under their afts. 

“C’mon kid, stay with me. We’ll get an energon transfusion in you, get you back up to speed. You’re not going to the well just yet.”

 

Hours, or maybe days later, he wasn’t sure and he’d never bothered to ask, he woke on an operating table, to the sight of the Prime’s CMO himself wrist deep in his internals with a look of such utter concentration on his face. He’d been surrounded by a halo of light from the overhead lamps, looking like a vision of Primus himself in Drift’s opinion, and he’d opened his mouth to say just that when the medic had pinned him with a glare.

 

“The slag are you doing awake? Hey! First Aid, get the frag over here and recalibrate your damn settings, kid’s waking up in the middle of his surgery!” He sounded  _ pissed _ , and Drift had wanted to explain, to tell him everything, to spill his guts as figuratively as they currently were literally. 

 

He wanted to tell him he’d come from the gutters, that analgesic chips and sedation coding didn’t work well on him because he’d abused them both so much in Rodion, before the war, that he’d built up a tolerance that his processor hadn’t destroyed from cached memory yet. 

 

But then the coding got heavier, and he slipped back into the darkness, that vision of the medic rimmed in the glow of light the last thing he remembered, etched into his processor for the rest of his function.

 

When he’d woken, it was to their team’s medic standing over him, taking notes on his condition. Ratchet had moved on with the Prime to wherever they were needed next. 

 

He didn’t see him again until today, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun and the burning refuse around his pod, face and field both solid and steady, determined to help whoever was inside without knowing him for friend or foe. Two times now, he’d seen the medic, and both times it had been accompanied by that heavenly glow, as if the grumpy medic had been touched by Primus’ light, and he’d never  _ dare _ to mention that to him. He’d heard from others about the medic’s famous temper, and about his vehement denial of their creator god. 

  
He could respect Ratchet’s decision, had been there himself, in fact, when he’d called the streets of the Dead End his home. It didn’t matter to him that Ratchet didn’t believe in Primus, he could believe enough for the both of them, if only he could work up the nerve to ask the medic out. 

 

He strolled by the platform that housed a small living area for the human companions, and was stopped short by the female, Miko? The tiny dark hair girl was glaring at him in a way he hadn’t seen since he’d first defected to the Autobots. 

 

“Hey, new guy?”

 

“Ah...Drift. I’m Drift. It’s very nice to meet you.” He smiled, and bowed a little bit, unsure of the protocols for dealing with the team’s small organic companions and not wanting to risk misstepping.

 

“Yea yea. You’re Drift, and I’m Miko, and  _ you’re _ hitting on Optimus’ boyfriend, so you need to back off!” It took a moment for his processor to catch up with the little tirade he’d just been treated to, and by that point, Optimus had come back into the room. His optics widened, and he couldn’t pull his panicked, dismayed field back under control before the Prime noticed.

 

“Drift, Miko...is everything alright?” Drift’s plating flattened down tight against his frame, and he shrunk back, shaking his head.

 

“Everything...everything’s just fine.” Panic clawed at his pump, stalling it, seeming to strangle him as he realized he’d been overstepping his boundaries, and flirting with the _ Prime’s  _ conjunx. That was the only word in the lexicon that he’d been given for this language that directly translated, and mortification tugged his once light spark down heavy to the bottom of its chamber to sit like a rock.

 

“It’s ok, Prime. I just set the newbie straight on you and Ratch.” Miko grinned, giving the massive mech a thumbs up. Instinct had him shrinking down, making himself as small a target as possible, there was no way he could come out on top in a fight with the Prime, if he found out what Drift had been doing and decided to take it out on him.

 

Realistically, a tiny part of his processor was clamoring at him, pointing out that the Prime would  _ never _ do something so low as to beat on one of his own soldiers for a misstep, this wasn’t the Decepticon army, he was safer here than he’d ever been before in his entire function. But panic was louder, and drowned out that little voice of reason.

 

<Drift?> He jumped when his comm line crackled to life and Prime’s voice filled his processor. At the same time, Bulkhead, his once fellow Wrecker and an admittedly  _ very _ dangerous mech in his own right, sidled up next to Prime, a confused look on his faceplates. <Drift, please, I’d like very much for you to calm down. I fear there may be a misunderstanding here that we need to clear up.>

 

<I’m so sorry sir, I  _ swear  _ I didn’t know, I promise I won’t approach him again!> Even as he said it, he questioned his ability to keep that promise. Ratchet had been his reason for continuing on for hundreds of thousands of years, 

 

< _ Drift _ !> He froze, optics wide and vents struggling to get away from him when the Prime spoke in that firm, commanding tone that brooked no argument. <I heard what Miko said. I want to make sure you understand, we are  _ not _ conjunx endura. Merely good friends. Miko very much misunderstood our relationship, and I will have a talk with her. Please know that I see the way you and Ratchet are interacting already, and I support it wholesparkedly.>

 

The panic started to ease its grip around his fuel pump, and he felt his armor relax at the Prime’s words. He continued to speak, but Drift would admit he wasn’t exactly paying attention, focused as he was on his venting, calming his racing spark.

 

“If I’m not being too bold,” He jumped again, unprepared to hear Optimus speaking out loud so suddenly, but turned to face him, adopting a parade rest as he fought down the last little tremors of his fight or flight instincts. “I believe Ratchet is not scheduled for anything pressing the day after tomorrow, if you’d been planning on asking for him to join you outside the base for some personal time.”

 

“I...ah. I think I’ll go speak to him now, then, before his schedule fills up. Thank you, sir.” He spun on his heel, to head back to the medbay, and froze when Optimus’ broad hand came down on his shoulder, only just fitting in the space between neck and pauldron.

 

“Drift, you may call me Optimus, if you wish. And good luck.”

 

He wasn’t sure how confident the smile he gave them was, but he didn’t care. He was already hurrying back towards the medbay, only just barely restraining himself from taking off at a dead run.

 

Ratchet was just where he’d left him, going through data on the console that was pulling up in little notations next to various parts of the schematic of his frame that was taking up the majority of the display screen. For a minute, he found he couldn’t say a word, frozen, awestruck. Ratchet was so focused, so dedicated. That that dedication was, at this moment, to  _ Drift _ , and his well being? He found it difficult to process. 

 

Then Ratchet turned, sensing his field, maybe, as it pulsed with awe and admiration. The admiration morphed into something more, something softer, when that charming flush rose into the medic’s cheeks again, and he averted his optics.

 

“Did you need something, Drift?” He shook his head, stepping closer, boldly taking one of those finely tuned black plated hands between his own, scarred, rough, worn ragged by comparison.

 

“No...I mean...yes? I mean, not about this, not...not about my physical.” Ratchet arched a brow, optical apertures cycling in as he focused on the frontliner, and he felt his tank twist into weird, nauseous knots, but in a  _ good _ way. His spark was spinning wildly in its chamber again, and his processor felt light and dizzy, as he cleared his vocalizer with a blat of static.

 

“Drift, spit it out?” Ratchet’s free hand came up to cover Drift’s over his own, thumb absentmindedly stroking circles over his knuckles.

 

“Well...Optimus mentioned that you had some free time coming up in a few days, and I was...I was wondering if maybe...maybe you’d like to go for a drive? Take our rations somewhere and just sit and talk for a while?” Were his hands shaking? He couldn’t tell if his hands were shaking.

 

Ratchet’s optics went wide, and he turned to glare out the doorway at the Prime, who was watching them from over by the space bridge. Drift was just about to pull away, apologize for his presumption, despite Prime’s encouragements, when Ratchet nodded. The medic wasn’t looking at him, his optics averted to the side, dim and half shuttered. His cheeks were still warm, stained blue with that ever present blush that made him look half his age and so uncertain.

 

“Y-yea.” Ratchet’s vocalizer cut out and rebooted fuzzy, “Yea, I think that sounds good.”

 

“Really?” Drift could help but laugh, relief flooding his field and making his knees weak as he leaned back against the exam table, accidentally pulling Ratchet nearly off his feet.

 

“Really.” Ratchet chuckled, pushing up and away from Drift. He regretted the loss of that warm frame, those hands in his, instantly, and barely resisted the urge to reach out and pull him back. Instead, he laughed, and warmth flooded his spark when Ratchet started laughing right along with him.

 

~~~~~

 

“I don’t get it.” She complained, throwing her hands overhead and glaring at Bulkhead. 

 

When he didn’t respond right away, she rounded on Optimus, tilting her head back and putting her hands on her hips. The tall mech fixed her with a confused, concerned look, and she imagined that ‘field’ thingie they talked about was probably full of the same.

 

“Why aren’t you _ fighting _ for him?” She demanded, stomping her foot and pointing at Ratchet in the other room for emphasis.

 

“Fighting? Miko, what are you-”

 

“Don’t you even  _ care _ that the newbie in there is making moves on your boyfriend?” The way Optimus reeled back, away from the column, and Miko herself, and the  _ look  _ on his face, oh it would have been hilarious, if not for the seriousness of the situation. “Look at him in there! I’ve never  _ seen  _ the grump so...so…”

 

“Happy?” Bulkhead supplied, and Miko nodded emphatically, pointing at the big guy and agreeing.

 

“Yea!  _ Happy! _ ”

 

“Miko, I’m afraid there’s been a...misunderstanding?”

 

She tilted her head, furrowing her brow in confusion at the delicate way Optimus spoke. Bulkhead held out a hand, waiting for her to step into his palm before lifting her up towards something closer to eye level for the two mechs.

 

“Miko...Ratch and Optimus...they’re just good friends.”

 

No. No way...she could have  _ sworn _ there was something between them, the way they talked, the way they interacted together. Ratchet was always so much more relaxed when he was around the Prime. And the way he’d spoken of the Optimus before the war, when he was a different mech...that was  _ love _ , right?

 

“Miko?” She jolted at Optimus’ quiet voice, turning to look up at him.

 

“I...uh...I guess I just...dunno, thought you guys were closer. My mistake!” She scrubbed at her eyes, not even sure  _ why _ it bummed her out so badly that she’d been wrong, except maybe that now Ratchet looked all happy and flustered and giggly like he was getting ready for a first date, and Optimus was here, once again, alone, set apart from the rest. It was like he got stuck up on some pillar for everyone to admire but nobody wanted to cross the red velvet rope to get to know the bot behind the mask, and it  _ sucked _ .

 

Optimus smiled, reaching in to touch her shoulder with one massive, flat fingertip. She smiled back, leaning into the touch and pressing her cheek to warm, living metal. She’d realized a long time ago that this? This was something she’d grown so used to, touching a regular car, or anything else, it felt wrong,  _ dead _ . These were her friends, and she’d do anything to see them happy.

 

Seeing the way Optimus smiled, with no hurt or sadness in his optics, she realized that maybe they didn’t need to all be paired off to be happy. Maybe Optimus was one of those that could enjoy his friends company without needing more?

 

Laughter erupted from the medbay once more and they all turned as one to watch while Ratchet blushed and turned away from the smiling newcomer. She made a mental note to ask Ratchet how robots could  _ blush _ , and maybe while she was getting her answer, she could do a little poking in the right direction, see if the apparently shy mech was going to ask Drift out, or if she’d have to do it for him.

 

Time to plot, she thought, studying the two and pressing her palm to Optimus’ finger. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are made, dates are interrupted, and Ratchet is NOT impressed with Knockout

Ratchet sighed, looking over the map for the third time. This was  _ impossible _ . He’d spent the rest of the day Drift had arrived, nearly  _ all _ of yesterday, and  _ hours _ today pouring over the map, trying to find something,  _ anything _ to do. If they’d been on Cybertron? He could have come up with half a dozen things to do with Drift, to show Drift, within a five block radius of his  _ residence _ . Here? There was desert.

 

And more desert.

 

And over there? Oh look.

 

More.

 

Freaking. 

 

Desert.

 

He swiped off the mapping program, leaning his head against the edge of the console and only just barely refraining from throwing something. He should just cancel the whole thing.

 

He couldn’t figure out  _ why _ the legendary frontliner wanted anything to do with him in the first place, and now he was going to fail spectacularly at this thing he was  _ refusing _ to call a date, because that would make it serious, and he wasn’t sure he could handle that level of serious at the moment.

 

There was just  _ nothing out here _ . The best he could come up with was the mesa, and what could they do except sit on the edge and gather sand under their plating? 

 

So lost in his frustratingly circular thoughts, he failed to notice the mech behind him till hands touched his shoulders, nimble fingers kneading at tense connectors. He nearly jumped out of his plating, and whipped around to come face to face with a cautious Drift. 

 

The speedster had his hands held up in a nonthreatening display, and  _ apologetic/caution/retreat _ flooded the field pressing up against his own. Sighing, he pushed  _ reassurance/calm _ into his own field, pressing it out till they merged and the caution and panic ebbed away.

 

“Sorry...I didn’t mean to startle you…”

 

Ratchet cut him off with a shake of his head. “No, don’t apologize. I wasn’t paying attention, that’s all.”

 

When Drift smiled, it was soft, shy, nothing like the confident persona he had elsewhere on the base. Ratchet found he wanted nothing more than to frame that tentative smile between his hands and…

 

He deleted the line of thought before his fans could kick on or his blush could intensify again. 

 

“So…” Drift cleared his vocalizer, stepping back into Ratchet’s space and touching his hip. “Did you-”

 

“Hey guys, check it out!” They jumped apart, Ratchet nearly knocking over his console and Drift stumbling into the exam table and dropping down to sit on it with wide optics.

 

Miko stood in the doorway, watching them with a grin. She narrowed her eyes, planting her fists on her hips and leaning forward. One eyebrow raised nearly to her hairline, and Ratchet wanted to shoo her out of the room before she could say anything. He hadn’t even pushed himself away from the console though, before it was too late.

 

“What were  _ you two _ doing, hmmm? Lookin’ kinda guilty in here!” 

 

“Miko...” Ratchet growled, covering his face with both hands and wishing now more than ever he had warp capabilities. Or a hole to hide in.

 

“Take it easy, Ratch! Just wanted to show you my new shirt!” He risked a peek from between his fingers, just as Miko came to a stop with a little hop and flourish of her arms by their feet. Arms spread wide, she proudly showed off a white shirt she’d clearly cropped and removed the sleeves from herself. On the front was a picture of...was that a medic’s cross? He resisted the urge to check his plating,  _ knowing _ the Deltaraan markings had been removed eons ago. How had she…? 

 

Despite the confusion, there was no mistaking the red and white symbol for anything other than his old markings, the sign of a medic, honored on the battlefield, better than any ceasefire agreement to keep specific mechs safe while they worked in unsafe conditions. But behind that symbol...were those…? He glanced over at Drift, optics sliding down to the sheaths hung from his hip plating. They were definitely hand drawn approximations of the mech’s swords, crossed behind the medic symbol in an ‘x’. What the…

 

“Miko...what is  _ that? _ ” He sighed, rubbing the spot under his chevron, dreading the answer he felt was coming.

 

“It’s your symbol! It’s awesome, right? Check out the back!” She spun around, both feet leaving the floor in her zeal, and lifted her arms to point both thumbs at the words scrawled across the back of her shirt.

 

“Team...Dratchet?” Drift read aloud, and there was no need to be able to read his field, the confusion was plain in his tone and on his face. “Um...Miko? I think...maybe you spelled Ratchet’s name wrong?” Drift said gently, pushing away from the table and kneeling to be closer to the tiny girl.

 

“No way! Not Ratchet, DRatchet! Drift. Ratchet. Dratchet! It’s totally your ship name!” Sure enough, ‘Team Dratchet(™)’ was written in red dripping paint over her back. A quick check for the term ‘ship’ on the internet had Ratchet groaning into his hands.

 

“Miko…” It wasn’t a whine, it  _ wasn’t _ . But there wouldn’t be a mech alive who would blame him if it was. 

 

Drift wasn’t as quick to understand, and Miko rolled her eyes.

 

“Ship, you know...like I totally ship you guys together! I used to ship Ratch with the boss, but that ship got sunk. Which is cool, I mean, I want Ratchet to be happy! And I want Optimus to be happy too! And I think maybe he’s happy just being him, without someone else? But Ratchet is  _ totally _ into you, and you’re hot! For a giant walking talking metal alien, anyway! So Dratchet’s my new OTP!” She heaved a sigh when she was met with Drift’s confused stare, “OTP, you know, One True Pairing? You guys are it! I made shirts for the whole crew! Well… the humans, anyway. Do you know how expensive it is to make shirts for semis and ambulances and whatever the heck Bulkhead is? Like an army car or something? And Arcee? Pfffft! Arcee’s got all these weird pokey bits and gapey bits and forget it! They don’t even make shirts  _ close  _ to your size anyway!”

 

“Miko, don’t you have somewhere else to be?” He  _ wasn’t whining _ . 

 

He also didn’t whimper when Miko shook her head, and climbed into Drift’s outstretched hand so she could be lifted up onto the table.

 

“No _ way! _ ”

 

“What is this symbol here?” Drift asked, carefully touching the (™) on the back of her shirt.

 

“ _ More importantly _ , what’s the symbol on the  _ front _ of your shirt?” Ratchet stressed, fully prepared to have words with whoever had helped her with this little project.

 

“Well, the front one? That’s like your symbol, like I said! Drift’s got those cool swords, they’re like the ones in this video game I play, they-” 

 

“Miko…”

 

“Jeeze Ratch...you should  _ know _ what the other part is...I mean...I did get it right, yea? Optimus said it looked right, I copied it from a picture from when you weren’t so old….”

 

How she could sound so uncertain, and insult him in the same breath...it was a talent he’d never seen before.  _ Whirl _ couldn’t even do that.

“They’re the old medics symbols!” Drift laughed, optical apertures refocusing to zoom in close on the shaky drawing. “I remember you wearing these!”

 

“You do?” Ratchet and Miko both asked as one. When had Drift...Ratchet wracked his processor, trying and failing to come up with a time when they’d have crossed paths before today, let alone long enough ago the symbols on his pauldrons had still been the cross.

 

“Yea,” Drift grinned, rubbing the back of his helm and tilting one finial down. “Long time ago...you patched me up after a...a skirmish. Found me near offline. I woke up, remember, while you were doing repairs? You sounded really upset with one of the other medics over that.” 

 

Ratchet’s optics widened. There’d been a few times in his career he’d had a patient online during a procedure, but narrowing it down to after Deadlock had defected, and only one time matched up.

 

“That was you?” He pushed on before Drift finished nodding, “Of  _ course _ I was upset, First Aid should have kept you under till I was  _ done _ ! A civilian waking up mid-repair is one thing, and bad enough! A frontliner waking up in strange settings with a medic rooting around in their chassis? I like my head where it is, most days, thank you!” 

 

The smile Drift gave him now wasn’t full of mirth, or laughter over Miko’s rambling. It was soft and sweet, and gentle, and it made his fuel pump stall and his spark skip a rotation.

 

“Ratchet...I couldn’t have lifted a finger against you that day, even if I  _ could _ have moved.” There was a quiet ‘awwww’ from the table, that Ratchet ignored. Drift had grabbed both of his hands between his own, and stepped closer. “You were amazing that day. Ringed in light, so focused...you didn’t care that I was nearly gone already. Or that I was a defect. You didn’t hang around expecting favors for the repairs...you just...saved me. There wouldn’t have been a force in this universe that could have made me hurt you that day, or any day since.”

 

“How...how did I not recognize you?” Ratchet’s intake had gone dry, and rebooting his vocalizer stung. Drift’s hands around his were warm and gentle, careful not to squeeze too tightly, and shaking just a little bit, fine tremors that rattled the plating of his palms against the backs of Ratchet’s hands.

 

One corner of Drift’s mouth quirked up, and he lifted a shoulder in a half sparked shrug. “Was in the middle of a frame upgrade and armor change. It didn’t last long. I don’t know if many people remember that armor, to be honest.”

 

“You guys are  _ so. Sweet! _ ” Ratchet looked over Drift’s shoulder to see Miko climbing down off the table. “You keep being cute and confessing to the whole star crossed lovers thing. I’ve got patent paperwork to fill out for Team Dratchet!”

 

“Patent...paperwo- MIKO!” Ratchet was already sending a note to Agent Fowler as she ran out of the room.

 

~~~~~

 

After nearly an hour of listening to Miko argue with Agent Fowler over her right to patent, Ratchet finally gave up on trying to find a better solution for their not-date.

 

Subspacing their rations, he met up with Drift at the tunnel leading to the exit. The speedster had a smile waiting for him when he saw him coming, and met him halfway.

 

“So…” Drift’s hands hovered, as if unsure what to do with them, and he scuffed one toe cap against the cement.

 

“So.” Ratchet winced. Did that come off flat? Bored? Don’t let him think you’re already bored of him! “Well, let’s hit the road? The roads are shut down from here to where we’re going, so you can have some fun without having to worry about humans, if you’d like?” The grin he got at that statement was blinding. He understood, the desire to burn off the excess energy in overflow powercells was even stronger than usual for speedster frame types, and Drift had been cooped up in the base these last few days. 

 

Cooped up in his... _ their _ hab, no less. He’d been hesitant about mingling with the rest of the team, even though he knew Bulkhead and Wheeljack, and the rest of them clearly weren’t going to bite.  _ Unless he asks _ , a traitorous little part of his processor added. As they headed out deeper into the desert, away from the base, he found himself admiring Drift as the faster mech pulled away, skidding through turns, pulling donuts and u-turns to race back to him, only to rush ahead again with a field that whipped past him full of energy and exuberance and excitement. The red and white bumper filling his line of site didn’t do  _ anything _ to help silence the part of his processor that had enjoyed Drift staying in their room far,  _ far _ too much.

 

He honestly felt like a new spark after their first major frame upgrade. Both nights had been plagued with recharge fantasies, and he woke each time with charge crackling under his plating and a dampness between his thighs, valve cycling down unhappily on nothing and spike pressing against the back of his panel.

 

That first night, he’d been mortified, and had rolled over to try and go back to recharge, ignoring the charge, but he hadn’t been able to slip back into defrag. The second night, he hadn’t even tried. He’d gotten up, made some excuse when Drift stirred about a scan he’d just remembered needing to run in the medbay, and retreated to the washrack to work off the charge.

 

He really hoped this worked out, because otherwise, if he didn’t short out from excess charge, he was going to  _ kill _ Optimus the first chance he had. 

 

Up ahead, Drift had locked his brakes, drifting around a curve and coming to a stop where the road ended just up ahead. The swordsmech was already rising up onto his feet when Ratchet caught up, and waited till he’d unfolded from his ambulance alt before linking their hands together and laughing. He all but vibrated in place, clearly holding back the majority his post drive celebration, and Ratchet couldn’t help but wonder just how long it had been since Drift had been allowed to just race around for the sheer fun of it?

 

Ratchet led them off the of the road, towards the edge of the mesa that the road had led up to. Originally, there had been mining settlements out here, and roads had been built in anticipation of a booming population. When many of the mines started to age, or worse, collapse, the plans for expansion had died away, and the roads were closed off to civilians. This road was one he didn’t frequent often, he didn’t see the need to come out and sit on his aft and watch the sun rise and set. 

 

He hoped that he’d read Drift right, that the other mech would enjoy the scenery as it were. That little voice that nagged at him from the back of his processor worried that the soldier would  _ hate _ this idea, would think it boring, maybe even insulting?

 

Drift didn’t give him long to spend worrying, setting down and scooting up to the edge, dangling his legs over the side. He was still holding tight to Ratchet’s hand, and used that grip to pull the medic down next to him, wrapping his arm around Ratchet’s thick waist, and leaning in to rest his head on Ratchet’s shoulder.

 

He hoped,  _ prayed  _ even, that one day, his face would stop overheating. There was a distinct possibility the stupid thing would melt off if he wasn’t careful. But for the moment, he contented himself with resting his cheek on Drift’s helm, shuttering his optics and basking in the relaxed contentment radiating from the other mech’s unguarded field. 

 

The sun setting out over the desert painted the sand and sky in broad strokes of orange and yellow, fading into the night sky. Drift had remained motionless for quite a while, engine idling low, just this side of dozing, the warmth of his frame against Ratchet’s right side a stark contrast to the chill of the night air elsewhere. He  _ hated _ to interrupt the serenity of the moment, but after long minutes he shifted a bit, keeping his arm firmly wrapped around Drift’s shoulders as he dug into subspace for their rations.

 

“Ratch?”

 

“Hmmm?” He cracked the seal on one cube, handing it to Drift, then opened the other and raised it to his intake. 

“I-”

 

“Well..isn’t this  _ sickeningly  _ sweet.” The lazy drawl from behind them set Ratchet’s plating flat against his protoform, and he dropped his ration as he turned and climbed to his feet so quickly his processor spun. 

 

Knockout and a group of Vehicons stood between them and the road, the deranged medic holding his shock prod in one hand, the other planted on his hip. 

 

Ratchet wanted to protest when Drift stepped between them, hands resting comfortably on the hilts of his swords and tilting the sheaths back. He wanted to put himself between this mech who could  _ clearly _ defend himself, and the ‘Con standing a short distance away. 

 

By the time he’d decided to do just that, it was too late.

 

Knockout shifted, bringing the prod into both hands and turning on the charge. Drift drew his swords almost faster than the optic could process. Then they were locked together, Drift’s blade crossed to block the fork of the prod that hovered just over his face. Vehicons milled around behind Knockout, keeping their attention divided between Drift and himself.

 

<Ratchet to base, we need a ground bridge and backup to my coordinates, ASAP!> Ratchet was rushing forward even as he was calling in the request.

 

Vehicons blocked his way, latching onto his limbs and trying to slow him down without violating Megatron’s ‘don’t hurt the medic’ policy. Others joined Knockout, swarming over Drift and blocking him from Ratchet’s sight. 

 

Ratchet struggled against the Vehicons blocking his way, but paused when mechs started falling away from the group sporting sparking wounds, clearly made by Drift’s blades. For a few moments, Ratchet found he could only watch in awe as the swordsmech dispatched the mechs that outnumbered him easily twenty or more to one.

 

Then Knockout stepped up behind Drift while his back was turned, shoving his prod into the distracted frontliner’s back.

 

When they shifted again, multiple mechs were pinning Drift to the ground at Knockout’s feet, and that prod, with electricity visibly crackling between the prongs, was pointed at the tender spot of protoform exposed between his chest plate and the strips of abdominal armor.

 

“Ohhhh Deadlock...you have  _ no _ idea how badly Megatron wants you back.” Knockout purred, leaning closer, tracing the tips of the prod over his chest plate and chuckling when Drift thrashed in the Vehicons’ grip. “How many mercenaries has he sent after you, hmmm?” Another zap, a little longer this time, enamel bubbling at the point of contact as Drift’s frame locked up and shook. “Did you know, the DJD has orders to bring you back  _ alive _ . That  _ never _ happens. Tarn is...not impressed. You should be grateful I got here first. There was nothing said about how many living  _ pieces  _ you needed to be returned in, afterall.”

 

The prod was shoved into that soft spot under his chest plate, and one optic cracked and went dark with a puff of black smoke. His frame relaxed, went limp and motionless on the desert floor as the Vehicons backed away, shaking their servos, trying to reignite relays that had been blown out from their contact with Drift’s frame.

 

Ratchet saw the bridge open up behind Knockout. Saw Optimus and the others come racing through. But it was through a haze, rage fueling him now as he shook the ‘Cons clinging to him off. There was no dramatic rush, no battle cry. A Vehicon that got in his way was lifted up and tossed aside, into three of their teammates. Knockout looked up at that, optics spiralling wide as Ratchet crossed that last small bit of distance between them, and grabbed hold of the other ‘medic’s’ collar fairing, lifting him straight up off his feet and giving him a good hard shake.

 

He saw the prod swing in out of the corner of his optic, and caught Knockout’s wrist in a crushing grip before the prongs could make contact. Plating buckled and twisted in his fist, and Knockout howled, kicking out, trying to break free.

 

“WATCH THE PAINT!” 

 

Ratchet’s engine snarled, and he twisted his wrist, grabbing hold of the prod and pulling it from numb fingers, the sensor relays probably crushed or cut under the ruined plating. Once he had the weapon in hand, he tossed Knockout to the ground and crouched over him, inspecting him.

 

“Oh, I can watch the paint, don’t worry, doctor.” His tone had Knockout’s optics spiraling down to pinpricks, terror rank in his field, but it was the deadly calm of his own field that had the other mech trying to crawl away. Ratchet pressed the conductor tips into a spot of cherry red paint, watching Knockout’s limbs twitch and flail, and the paint bubble and crack, dark burn lines spiderwebbing out from the points of contact to further mar the pristine finish.

 

His medic coding screamed at him, as it always did when he found himself in a position where he had to fight. It was particularly unimpressed this time around, with a mech clearly in no position to best him. Ratchet quashed the sick feeling in his tank, determined to deal with it later. 

 

He’d moved the prongs twice before broad hands grabbed hold of his shoulders and pulled him away.

 

“That’s  _ enough _ , Ratchet.” Optimus’ tone in his audial was firm and commanding, but his field was less commander, more concerned friend as he held Ratchet against his chest.

 

Wheeljack had hoisted Drift over one shoulder, and Arcee collected his swords while they retreated under cover of blaster fire into the glowing vortex of the bridge. Ratchet let himself be carried along, optics locked on Drift, processor focused only on the vibrant red and snow white of his armor, monitoring for even the slightest greying of nanite death.

 

Logically, he knew the mech could handle far more than what he’d been dealt.

 

Emotionally? His spark felt too large, too frentic for its housing, and his fuel pump was lodged in his intake. Optical cleanser made his vision watery, but his gaze never wavered as the desert landscape was swallowed up by the swirling colors of the bridge, and then replaced with the familiar comfort of their base.

 

~~~~~

 

It had been the work of only a few hours to replace Drift’s burnt out optic and the melted mess of wiring behind it. A few hours with mechs coming and going, offering him assistance, leaving when he dismissed them with a snap. Hours where Miko, in her hand made shirt, with eyes glossed over with a film of unshed tears, sat on his console, silent, motionless, just watching as he worked.

 

Bulkhead had taken her home when she’d seen that the worst of the physical damage had been repaired, and she’d left with only a muted ‘Tell Drift to feel better, yea Ratch?’ to mark her exit.

 

A few more hours had been spent to painstakingly strip and repaint the section of armor that had bubbled and cracked under Knockout’s prod, but he found the mindless repetitiveness of sanding and buffing away the marks of abuse on his...well...he wasn’t sure  _ what  _ Drift was to him, not yet, but it was soothing to be able to make the mech whole, physically and visually. If he kept his hands busy, if he kept his mind blank and his optics on his work, he couldn’t hear Knockout in his processor, over and over again.

 

“ _ You have no idea how badly Megatron wants you back.”  _

 

_ ““Did you know, the DJD has orders to bring you back alive. That never happens.” _

 

_ “Tarn is...not impressed.”  _

 

_ “There was nothing said about how many living pieces you needed to be returned in, afterall.” _

 

What could Megatron want him alive for, if not to punish Drift himself?

 

Megatron, the tyrant they went head to head against on such a regular basis Ratchet could practically set his chronometer to it?

 

Megatron, who routinely abused the mechs who were, if not loyal, then at least obedient, to him? Ratchet had seen,  _ first hand _ , what Megatron did to his SIC for the littlest of slights, forget the big, traitorous ones.

 

He would  _ destroy _ Drift. And it wouldn’t be an easy death. 

 

There’d never be another day spent watching him just enjoy the limits of his frame on abandoned roads with no speed limit signs. No second chance at watching the sun set over the desert leaning against each other like they had been. 

 

No chance to find out what Drift had been about to say.

 

His hands started to shake, and he exvented sharply, refocusing on the orbital sander in his hands. That’s why his hands were shaking, not out of fear, no.

 

Optimus would make the decision, once Drift was online and able to be part of the conversation/debate. Maybe Drift would be safer somewhere else? The Jackhammer was space worthy, Wheeljack could take Drift somewhere that wasn’t  _ right under Megatron’s olfactory sensor _ . 

 

But Ratchet...he’d have to stay. His first duty was to Prime, as the CMO. He couldn’t abandon his station, even if he was sure Optimus would  _ let _ him...

 

By the time Drift’s finish was gleaming and spotless once more, he found his fuel pump had settled down and his knees no longer felt like rubber. 

 

But his medbay...the sanctuary he’d built from scraps. The place where he’d healed every injury this team had ever seen…

 

He could see the exit to the base and the space bridge both, from where he stood by Drift’s berth. For the first time since he’d made this space his own, it was  _ too open _ , too...defenseless.

 

Without a second thought, he disconnected the monitors attached to Drift’s diagnostics ports, and lifted him effortlessly into his arms, cradling him against his chest and making a beeline for their room, with four walls and a door that locked.

 

He needed to be  _ sure _ Drift was  _ safe _ .

 

Once the lock was engaged, and the door secured, his fuel pump settled and his spark slowed to something closer to the neighborhood of a normal pulse. Now, all that was left to do was to wait for Drift to online.

 

He laid the mech out on the berth, making sure the pillow he’d already claimed and fallen in love with was tucked beneath his helm. There was a short mental debate with himself, but in the end he refrained from tucking a sheet around the mech to retain heat, worried that the soldier would online still primed for a fight and mistake the constriction of the sheet around his legs as restraints.

 

Instead, he bunched up the two sheets and tucked them around his waist, making a buffer between tender, charge burnt frame and the protruding armor of his arms. Once he was satisfied with Drift’s comfort, he drug the single chair in their room over to Drift’s bedside, and slumped down in it, fiddling with his hardline connections for a moment. 

 

Drift was fine. Would be fine. But he still found himself staring at Drift, staring at his paint, waiting for that grey. Waiting for something to happen, a cascade failure, a short, something,  _ anything.  _ His hands started to shake, and his vents rattled, and that settled it. 

 

The only way to be sure, the only way to be able to react, to know when something went wrong, the  _ instant _ it went wrong, was a hardline. He wouldn’t risk Drift’s health,  _ couldn’t _ risk it. Shaking fingers brushed against his diagnostic hatch, fumbling with the hidden catch.

 

A deep invent, pause for a count of five, exvent, and he found he could function enough to pop the small cover on Drift’s forearm and plug himself in. As diagnostic data scrolled across his HUD, and automatic alarms were set for various thresholds, he slumped down in the chair, chin to his chest. Before the last monitor was set up, he was out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Drift catches Ratchet red handed, and fun things happen.

It was an automatic motion detection alarm lighting up his dark HUD that woke him from a fitful recharge, and had both hands on Drift’s shoulders, pressing him back down into the berth before he was fully awake and aware of more than just the diagnostic information scrolling in front of his optics. Drift lay still and silent on the berth, hands curling loosely around Ratchet’s wrists, field full of  _ worry/concern/care _ as it wrapped around him like an intangiable blanket. 

 

“Apbupbup, where do you think you’re going?” He managed, once his vocalizer booted and his processor reconnected with higher functioning sectors.

 

“To put you in a berth? That  _ can’t _ be a comfortable way to sleep, Ratch.” The hands on his wrists slid up and down the sides of his arms, soothing, comforting. Palms roughened and textured from years of fighting curled around his shoulders, fingers expertly kneading into tense cabling.

 

“You were  _ just _ patched back up after being the bottom of a Vehicon dog-pile and having hundreds of thousands of extra volts pumped through your system. There’s  _ no way _ you’re going to try and drag a medic frame across this room, do you understand?” Ratchet snapped, trying to fix the other mech with a stern glare instead of the worry and concern that was a riot in his spark at the moment.

 

“We~ell….I  _ could _ drag you into  _ my  _ berth….it  _ is _ closer, after all.” Ratchet’s optical apertures spiral wide at the quiet comment, taking in the way the mech beneath him blushed, catching his lower lip behind a fang and looking anywhere but at Ratchet.

 

How to respond? A million different options ran through his processor almost at once, ranging from full on  _ retreat _ to taking it at face value at the offer he hoped it was, and climbing into the admittedly comfortable looking berth, and curling up against Drift, shielding him from the door across the room and soothing the part of himself that still expected there to be  _ danger _ .

 

In the end, he shrugged, tossing the ball back into Drift’s court to see how the other mech wanted to proceed. 

 

“Well, at least you wouldn’t be hurting yourself trying to carry me across the room if you did that.”

 

Drift snickered, fingers stroking up the cables of his neck to where they connected under his jaw now.

 

“C’mon Ratch, you can’t be  _ that _ heavy. And I’m stronger than I look!” Ratchet rolled his optics. Speedsters. They never thought about weight limits, did they? He couldn’t count the number of times a light frame must have thought he was hollow beneath all of this battle grade armor and thick, sturdy frame. Medics were made to haul mechs four, five, six times their size around, transport and transfer, restrain when need be, for the safety of all involved. He was  _ heavy _ as a result.

 

Instead of saying so, he just shushed the other mech and focused for long, silent minutes on the data provided to him by their connection. Variables and probabilities ran through his processor at each new line of code, but in the end, despite the fear still gnawing at his spark, the medic coding he’d been onlined with, that he’d trusted throughout his function, it cleared Drift as fully functional, if a bit tender, and disengaged. 

 

Now there was nothing left to blame his fear and paranoia on but himself. 

 

“Well, it looks like other than having an inflated ego and false sense of strength, you’re cleared for- _ ack!”  _ Drift’s grin had been growing with each word, and before Ratchet could finish his ‘take care of yourself for sparks sake’ lecture, he’d yanked on Ratchet’s shoulders and pulled the mech down into the berth with him.

 

Or more, on  _ top  _ of him.

 

Drift exvented sharply, optics widening, probably in shock at the sudden overabundance of weight on his frame. Embarrassed, face heating  _ again _ , Ratchet pushed himself up onto his palms, taking a great deal of his weight into his arms to relieve Drift of the pressure. Drift’s hands on his hips tightened briefly, and Ratchet shuddered, deleting the alerts as they popped up to his increase in temperature and request for an increase in fan speed. Surely Drift didn’t realize his fingers were rubbing along sensitive seams?

 

When Drift’s fans whine a little bit, no doubt trying to dump the sudden influx of heat Ratchet was putting off between them, and his face tinted with the warm bluish purple of a blush, Ratchet couldn’t hide the  _ mortification _ in his field, and rolled off Drift, back towards the edge of the berth. 

 

He really should have known better, Drift was probably just joking. He’d  _ just _ woken up from repairs after a strenuous fight, Ratchet shouldn’t have been draping himself all over the speedster like that. He was so busy beating himself up over his misstep, he nearly missed Drift clearing his vocalizer.

 

He didn’t miss the arm that wound around his waist, as Drift rolled over onto his side and pressed his forehelm against the small of Ratchet’s back. 

 

“Wait, Ratch...will...will you at least stay here with me for the night?” Ratchet doesn’t have the spark to tell him he’s been out for so long it’s nearly noon the next day, and simply nodded. With his back to the other mech, he could bite his lip, close his optics, take that shuddering exvent without feeling like he was being scrutinized. Once he had the fluttering nerves in his tank back under control, and his spark had calmed, he eased himself back down onto the berth, smiling when Drift curled up against his back, tucking one arm under Ratchet’s head as a makeshift pillow and pulling him close with the arm around his waist.

 

He fell back into recharge much more peacefully, this time, with Drift’s warm exvents against the back of his neck and their fields relaxed and meshed together into a single presence of  _ safe/warm/comfort _ .

 

~~~~~

 

The next time he woke, it was the middle of the night, and his fans were running full speed, with warnings popping up that they were overtaxed, and alternate measure would have to be taken to reduce the heat.

 

And by alternate measures, his systems needed to flush the excess charge licking across his lines. 

 

Some time in the night, he’d clearly had yet another recharge dream, although he didn’t remember much beyond smooth red and white plating and soft curves under his hands. As a result, his thighs were slicked with lubricants, and his spike was fully pressurized, and  _ aching _ . 

 

A careful tilt of his head saw that Drift was still asleep, and at some point they’d shifted so he was flat on his back, and Drift lay curled up against his side, head pillowed on his chest. Clearly, there would be no retreating to the wash racks tonight, not without waking Drift up and letting him see the evidence of what just sharing a  _ room _ , let alone a  _ berth, _ did to him.

 

For long, tense, terrible minutes he lay staring up at the ceiling in the dark, focusing on his vents, willing his spike to depressurize so he could close his panel and pretend this never happened.

 

Not that it had ever worked before, but what was another try? 

 

Worthless, that’s what. Every minute he wasted trying to will his traitorous frame back under control was another minute where Drift could online his optics, and find himself staring at more than he’d originally anticipated. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifted the arm that had been dangling off the side of the berth up to his thigh.

 

He couldn’t risk waking Drift, couldn’t make any sudden movements or noises, so he pressed his palm flat against his spike, trying to find some sort of angle or pressure that would get the job done quickly with the minimal amount of fuss.

 

Soon enough, he realized that staring at Drift’s peacefully sleeping face while he tried to self service wasn’t making things run any smoother, and he shuttered his optics tightly, biting down hard on his lip to try and stifle the whimpers that tried to escape as he squirmed, trying and failing to keep still and silent as overload crept up on him.

 

A hand covered his, over his spike, curling his fingers around his shaft and guiding his hand up and down.

 

He froze, optics flaring open, field overwhelmed with panic and shame when he realized what had happened,  _ whose _ hand was on his spike.

 

Drift leaned in, purring against his audial, exvents warm puffs of air against his suddenly overly sensitive plating, sending shivers down his spinal strut. 

 

“Looks like you could use a hand….have a nice dream? Or is this all for me?” Drift’s hand over his on his spike squeezed slightly, and he nipped at Ratchet’s lips, raising up onto his elbow and pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth.

 

When Ratchet said nothing, Drift’s field was suddenly far less  _ relaxed/aroused/slow waking _ , and much more  _ concern/mild panic _ .

 

“This okay?” He asked, locking optics and stilling his hand. Ratchet couldn’t speak, mouth opening on a gasp as his hips bucked up into their combined grip.

 

“Ratch?” Drift’s hand stilled, and Ratchet groaned, feeling overload ebb away with the lack of attention. “Ratch...I’m sorry, I thought...I mean, I didn’t mean to push, I’m sorry...I don’t want to do anything you don’t want me to? So please, tell me, is this ok?”

 

Ratchet’s field flared, still speechless as he was, and so he pushed all of the  _ wanting/lust/love/yes/PLEASE/pleasure/excitement  _ he could into his field and shoved it at the other mech. How could he even  _ consider _ Ratchet as less than extremely willing in this? How in the world could he think that Ratchet didn’t want this, and anything else Drift was willing to give him?! But all that came out of his vocalizer was a strained whimper, as he nodded frantically.

 

Drift grinned and sped up their pace, thumb swiping at the gathering fluids on the tip of his spike. 

 

When he finally found his vocalizer again, the first words out of his mouth were “Yes, please, Drift, please! I’m sorry, I...I didn’t want to wake you, I thought I could take care of it befoore you woke, like all the other nights... _ ahh! _ ” 

 

Drift silenced him with a clever twist of his wrist, pressing a kiss to his exposed throat, mouthing at the flexing cables beneath his lips.

 

“You mean to tell me that this is what you were doing the last few nights when you had ‘reports’ in the med bay to run?” His voice was a low, sexy purr, engine idling a deep underscore as he nipped at a cable, suckling on it and then pressing his glossa over the mark left behind. “And you  _ didn’t _ want my help?”

 

“Didn’t….n’t wanna bother you…” Ratchet gasped, arching up off the berth.

 

In a sudden move that left him reeling, he found himself rolled over, straddling one of Drift’s thighs, the speedster’s hands on his shoulders pulling him down to lay over the smaller mech’s frame and sliding up to cup his face. Their first proper kiss was heated, glossas tangling, lips pressed together, hot exvents mingling in the lack of space between them while Drift’s hands slid down his sides to grab his hips, guiding him into rocking against that thick thigh, rubbing his spike against heated armor.

 

When they broke apart, Ratchet rested his forehelm against Drift’s, panting, gasping, biting his lip while he stared into Drift’s optics. Remembering the way he’d reacted earlier, and going out on a limb, he lowered himself down onto his elbows, their chestplates pressed together, letting the speedster feel the way his weight settled on top of him.

 

Drift gasped, fingers tightening on his hips, and Ratchet hears the tell tale sound of a panel sliding aside just as Drift’s spike pressurizes, sliding neatly into the little crease between Ratchet’s hip and thigh. Ratchet pressed his face against Drift’s neck, gasping into the small, dark space as his hips rocked against the other mech’s thigh, feeling Drift’s spike press against thin, flexible plating. Drift wasn’t much more coherent, staticky whimpers escaping his vocalizer, hands firm and insistent against his hips as they moved together in the dark.

 

When Ratchet finally managed to wrench himself away, on the brink of an overload he suddenly found he wasn’t so eager to rush, Drift whined.

 

Ratchet couldn’t help but chuckle at the insistent grabby hands Drift made in his direction, complete with unimpressed pout as he shifted, rising up onto his knees and shifting over Drift’s hips. That stopped the unhappy noises cold, and Drift’s optics flared with excess charge, glossa peeking out to smooth over his lips.

 

“Ratch?” He put a hand on the center of Drift’s chest plate, pushing him back down flat when the other mech tried to sit up, and grinned. His free hand reached between splayed thighs, wrapping around the speedster’s spike, guiding the tip to the soaked folds of his valve and rocking his hips, sliding against warm, hard metal. When he’d sunk down enough for Drift to press between his folds, nudge into the rim of his valve, he let go, leaning forward to plant his other hand on Drift’s chest and rock down, taking more in.

 

Drift didn’t let him get that far, grabbing hold of his newly freed hand and giving him a cocky little smirk as he swiped his glossa across the medic’s pointer finger, teasing at sensitive, thin plating. Ratchet gasped, fingers twitching against the speedster’s face, and Drift pressed his lips against the tip, suckling on it.

 

“Keep that up and this won’t last long.” Ratchet groaned. Drift hummed, optics sparkling with wicked glee, and took that and his middle finger into his mouth, lips sealing around his knuckles, laving his glossa between them, hollowing his cheeks, sucking on them like he would a spike.

 

In retaliation, and partially because he’d lost all control of his legs at that point, Ratchet slid down until their plating clanged together, and Drift’s spike was stretching his valve, calipers flexed open to that point where the stretch was pleasant, but much farther and it would have become uncomfortable. Drift moaned around his fingers, optics dimming, hips trying to buck up against him and failing to lift his heavy frame. That only made his engine race, and Ratchet whimpered as the vibrations raced up his thighs into his array, and beyond that, the knot of pleasure in the pit of his tank tightened.

 

Drift didn’t allow him any time to adjust, to calm his racing spark, to try and fight back the overload that had snuck up on him once more. The hand not banded tight around his wrist to keep possession of the fingers in his mouth snuck between his thighs, bypassing his spike to stroke his swollen, glowing node, rolling it beneath knowledgeable fingers. 

 

Overload was sudden, and he froze, optics flaring, mouth dropping open, as he arched over Drift, calipers tightening around his spike, transfluid striping the speedster’s abdominal plating in silvery streaks. What was more sudden was Drift’s own overload, as transfluid filled his valve, heat and charge transmitting between spike and valve nodes, and oh, but Drift looked  _ beautiful  _ in the throes of overload. 

 

He pulled wet fingers free from Drift’s slack mouth, cupping the side of his face and leaning down for a kiss as Drift’s hips stilled and he relaxed back into the berth.

 

He pulled back when Drift tried to drag him down, smirking and lifting up onto his knees, mindless of the warm slide of transfluid down his thighs as he rolls Drift over onto his belly and tugs at his hips till the startled mech can get his knees under him, looking back over his shoulder with wide optics and flushed cheeks, finials standing up straighter than he’d seen yet.

 

Ratchet doesn’t take long to admire the sight of the adorably flushed mech’s face, tracing his fingers down Drift’s curved spinal strut, over the swell of his aft, and sliding between slick folds to press against the rim of his valve. Now Drift had his face buried in his crossed arms, thighs trembling, back curving to press his hips back against Ratchet’s teasing fingers.

 

Bending forward to press kisses to the spot between Drift’s shoulder blades, he slid two fingers in slowly, relishing the way calipers flexed and tightened around him, seeming to draw him in. Drift shivered beneath him, squirming, pressing back against him and whimpering as he pressed in till his palm lay flat against superheated plating.

 

Peppering little kisses down his spinal strut, he pumped and scissored those fingers, stretching tight calipers as he made his way lower. By the time his glossa slid between his fingers, dipping into the warmth of his valve, Drift had already begun to beg, long, rambling, incoherent pleas that cut off in a moan when Ratchet spread him open and pressed inside.

 

He alternated between Drift’s valve and his node, while Drift whimpered and twitched, reaching back with one arm to grab hold of Ratchet’s shoulder. Not pulling, or pushing, no demand in the touch, just a way to ground himself as Ratchet pulled him apart, reducing him to a begging, moaning wreck around three, then four fingers, thighs slicked with lubricants and field flooded with  _ arousal/love/more/please/yes. _

 

“Please, Ratch,  _ please. _ ” Drift gasped, rolling his face to the side so he could peek over his shoulder, letting go of the sodden pillow he’d had clamped between his teeth in a failing attempt to silence himself. “Please, spike me?  _ Primus _ , I’ll do anything, please, just don’t let this be the only time, please don’t stop, you’re so beautiful, so amazing, please, please,  _ please _ .” 

 

Ratchet froze, speechless, stunned. That only spurred Drift on to greater heights, vocalizer crackling around static and excess charge, valve flexing around his fingers as he shifted, trying to get his hands under him and push up. How could this beautiful, gorgeous, amazing,  _ wonderful _ mech be reduced to begging  _ him _ ? 

 

He pulled away completely, and Drift sobbed, and Ratchet couldn’t tell if it was frustration at being left empty and on the brink of overload, or if it was because Ratchet had moved away, but he didn’t dare wait to find out, he didn’t know which would be worse. Or better.

 

Instead of spiking Drift on his knees, he crawled up to the head of the berth, settling back against the wall and dragging a confused Drift up with him.

 

“Ratch?” He didn’t let Drift finish, wrapping one lubricant stained hand around a shapely thigh and pulling him into his lap, leaning up and kissing bite flushed lips and guiding his spike into Drift’s valve. 

 

The breathy sigh he got in response warmed his spark, and he pulled back just enough to speak, finding his vocalizer fuzzed near to incomprehensible with static the first three tries.

 

“I’m yours Drift, you never have to beg,” He managed, voice hoarse as Drift rocked in his lap, peppering Ratchet’s face with kisses, fingers finding seams and plucking at sensitive wire bundles. He pressed in for another kiss, and this time didn’t pull away as he spoke, lips brushing over Drift’s, “For as long as you’re blind enough to want me, I’m yours.”

 

He couldn’t tell if Drift was laughing or crying against him, optics crossing in an effort to decipher the flushed mech’s expression. Drift leaned in, sealing their lips together again, cutting off his efforts as their glossas slid together, exvents mingling. Overload was creeping up on him again, and he reached between them to wrap one hand around Drift’s spike, stroking in time with the swordsmech’s movements.

 

When Drift pulled away, he straightened that little bit to rest his forehelm against Ratchet’s, vents speeding up as he bucked up into Ratchet’s hand, rocked down onto his spike, rubbing his node against the medic’s pelvic plating, optics dim, mouth slack.

 

“If...if I’m blind, then I promise I’ll  _ never _ open my optics again,” Drift’s vocalizer shorted in static, rebooting into a moan as the first hints of overload started to flex his calipers in rippling waves up and down Ratchet’s spike, “You’re all that I’ve wanted for  _ so  _ long, Ratchet, all I need, and a thousand times more than I’ll ever deserve...but...but,  _ oh slag,  _ but I’ll spend every second of the rest of our functions trying to make myself….hnnng…..worthy of y-you!” A fumbling kiss pressed against his mouth, as Drift’s hands tightened on his shoulders and his hips lost their rhythm, spike twitching in Ratchet’s hand and coating abdominal armor and fingers alike in silver streaks of fluid.

 

Ratchet wrapped both hands around Drift’s hips now, pulling him down flush against his pelvic array as he overloaded with a hoarse shout, face hidden in Drift’s shoulder as his spike emptied his transfluid reservoir of what little bit it had left. 

 

Letting himself slump back against the wall, vents open wide and gasping for air, he smiled down at Drift as the swordsmech curled up against his chest, valve still flexing around his softening spike, optics dim and frame drenched in coolant.

 

He thought the mech was in recharge, but those optics brightened for just a moment, and he tilted his helm back to smile up at Ratchet.

 

“If I’m blind, then I never want to see again. And if I can never open my optics again, if that’s what it takes to convince you I mean it, then I’d gladly be blind for the rest of my days. So long as I’m with you.”

 

Optical fluids welled up, his intake constricting around a sudden, suspicious lump, but before he could reassure the other mech that he felt the same, Drift’s field smoothed out in recharge, those bright blue optics dimming and offlining completely as the mech slipped offline curled up with his hands pressed against Ratchet’s chest, a soft smile on his lips.

 

Cleanup could wait, Ratchet decided, after taking multiple stills of the peaceful look on his love’s face.

 

Right now, he wanted nothing more than to curl up with Drift and go back to recharge.

 

And maybe, just maybe, get a repeat performance in the morning?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the priorities on base are shifted.

Agent Fowler watched the progress bar of the elevator shift down, early the next morning, while he concocted a story to explain the sudden and not at all suspicious disappearance of his ‘Team Dratchet’ shirt.

Miko hadn’t bought the ‘I have to stay in uniform’ excuse, so he was currently trying out something involving bald eagles and a fight for his life when the doors slid open.

And he walked straight into a mad house.

Arcee was hauling Jack towards the exit ramp, ranting loudly about inconsistent personality coding and a lack of peace and quiet to focus.

Which….was absolutely true.

“PRIME!” He shouted over the ruckus, hands over his ears in an attempt to drown out the rhythmic clanging echoing from somewhere deeper in the base.

“Ah, Agent Fowler, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit so early in the morning.”

“Cut it, Prime. What in Uncle Sam’s star spangled shorts is going on back there? You guys demolishing the base?!” The clanging picked up speed, a rapid pace now that was distinctly metal on metal and grating to his ears.

Prime’s optics widened, and he shifted on his feet uncomfortably, exchanging glances with Bulkhead, who held Miko cupped between his hands. The foreign exchange student was glaring at him between Bulkhead’s fingers, tugging at her own shirt irritably.

“Not..not demolishment, no, sir. Ratchet and our newest team member are…” If Fowler didn’t know better, he’d think Prime was panicking, stumbling over his words.

“Building furniture!” Miko laughed, looking up at Bulkhead and nodding.

“Oh, yea! New guy needed a seat, so they’re making him one.” Miko’s eyes widened, and her face turned bright red, and that was all Fowler needed to know as the clanging picked up speed once more, and then the base fell completely silent.

“Prime…” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head, waving erratically with his free hand.

“Ah..yes, Agent Fowler?”

“The new priority for this base? Is some damn soundproofing. You run this damn army, you make the calls about fraternization, but for the love of Pete, I don’t wanna hear it! And _they_ ,” He pointed at Miko, who was rolling around laughing in Bulkhead’s hands, feet kicking in the air. “ _They_ SHOULDN’T hear it! Understand?”

“Don’t worry, sir...it’s top priority. Arcee has already decided that.” Oh, he could hear the laugh in Prime’s voice, and he stormed back to the elevator.

“Um, Agent Fowler? Did...did you need something? Other than to reprioritize our base maintenance?”

“I don’t know. All that clanging, I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast, let alone what cockamamey scheme those ‘Con freaks are up to this time. I’m going to go upstairs, and I’m going to log back into my mission panel. When I come back down, I expect this place to be silent as the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, got it?”

He didn’t wait for Prime to reply, the elevator doors closing and ensconcing him in blessed silence.

He _really_ should have called in sick today.

**Author's Note:**

> Now featuring an actual Team Dratchet(tm) shirt [here](http://www.redbubble.com/people/sparkbeat/works/21133292-team-dratchet-tm) if anyone is interested!
> 
> Commission information can be found [here](http://the-sparkbeat.tumblr.com/post/139583432468/price-list-ficlet-100-500-words-1000) if you are interested. Thank you!


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